façade. There was undreamt of lethal strength there hidden behind a face that would’ve looked at home rending flesh off prey.
“You’re all going to die. You will be tribute to The Redeemer.” He turned back to the crying driver and hooked his claws deep into his chest. He grabbed his rib cage securely and with a twist of his wrist threw him out the same way he had been minutes earlier.
“I said shut up.” The words followed the still groaning, barely alive driver. Xar-eel twirled on one leg, turning his back to the bus and with a theatrical flourish sat behind the wheel. Still facing away, he turned his head completely around at the neck to address the remaining screaming passengers.
“The world is going to end in the Storm within the century anyway so hold on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” And with a cloud of smoke from tire and exhaust, the bus peeled away screams and maniacal laughter fading away till they could no longer be heard.
The Storm Worsens
Time: November 1 st , 1973, Montreal, Quebec, Canada.
The LaPress headline beside Sophie Bertrand read DEATH TOLL MOUNTS. This news didn’t help her sleep in the past ten days. Nothing helped. She tried hypnosis, positive thinking, alcohol, drugs, anything and everything. No luck.
The space under her eyes had gone from her usual brown to dark, chalky gray. Even her day hours provided no solace from her thoughts. She was obsessed with the thought there was little time left in the world. She saw the end everywhere.
One second she was watching Sue Anne Nivens on Mary Tyler Moore , finally forgetting all the doom and gloom, and the next second, it would be replaced by cataclysms. Volcanoes erupting when earlier Betty White was batting her lashes at Ted Knight.
Many times she watched television and thought it was the news, but it wasn’t turned on. She called a friend to convince herself she wasn’t going crazy. She talked about everything she was sure she just saw, but her friend didn’t know what she was talking about.
Nobody did.
Time: November 1 st , 1973, Puritan Theatre, Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
A bus-full of screaming passengers went past the abandoned boarded-up theatre. It was to be reopened as a Spanish movie house, but now, instead a smug, doughy, bespectacled man surveyed in self-indulgent satisfaction. He had brought Xar-eel out of Hell. Only a premier witch could conjure a ninth-ring fiend and live to tell the tale. Their screams alone were a shower of pleasure and worth the effort it had taken.
Guy Benoit had achieved this pinnacle of learning independently. He was never part of the Luciferians, Satanists, or any other group. The very idea of sharing anything with anyone repulsed him. He was a twin and had had enough of that growing up with his brother Daniel. They were forced to share everything. Sharing was the first thing he put a stop to when he ran away at fifteen years old. He hated sharing and charity. His fellow man, women, and children were constant irritants.
Stupid people.
He hated them.
He hated people.
He hated everybody.
Listening to the news on his transistor radio, he tried to find a tally of the litany of destruction.
“The death toll rises to well over 1500 people. Authorities are pooling resources to get to the bottom of the ritualistic murders.”
As he listened to others contributions to the tribute for The Redeemer, he reviled everyone he had ever known and anyone he was yet to meet. He walked past pentagrams scrawled on the floor; runes painted in blood on the walls complemented those that covered him from head to toe.
He continued past corpses hanging upside down with their throats cut, the blood drained into buckets beneath them. His loathing thoughts came into mumbles bubbling out of his mouth and rose in volume until he was almost shouting them in a mantra.
“They will suffer, oh yes they will! The Redeemer will crush them all under His heel and they will be pieces of blood, pulp and
“You’re all going to die. You will be tribute to The Redeemer.” He turned back to the crying driver and hooked his claws deep into his chest. He grabbed his rib cage securely and with a twist of his wrist threw him out the same way he had been minutes earlier.
“I said shut up.” The words followed the still groaning, barely alive driver. Xar-eel twirled on one leg, turning his back to the bus and with a theatrical flourish sat behind the wheel. Still facing away, he turned his head completely around at the neck to address the remaining screaming passengers.
“The world is going to end in the Storm within the century anyway so hold on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” And with a cloud of smoke from tire and exhaust, the bus peeled away screams and maniacal laughter fading away till they could no longer be heard.
The Storm Worsens
Time: November 1 st , 1973, Montreal, Quebec, Canada.
The LaPress headline beside Sophie Bertrand read DEATH TOLL MOUNTS. This news didn’t help her sleep in the past ten days. Nothing helped. She tried hypnosis, positive thinking, alcohol, drugs, anything and everything. No luck.
The space under her eyes had gone from her usual brown to dark, chalky gray. Even her day hours provided no solace from her thoughts. She was obsessed with the thought there was little time left in the world. She saw the end everywhere.
One second she was watching Sue Anne Nivens on Mary Tyler Moore , finally forgetting all the doom and gloom, and the next second, it would be replaced by cataclysms. Volcanoes erupting when earlier Betty White was batting her lashes at Ted Knight.
Many times she watched television and thought it was the news, but it wasn’t turned on. She called a friend to convince herself she wasn’t going crazy. She talked about everything she was sure she just saw, but her friend didn’t know what she was talking about.
Nobody did.
Time: November 1 st , 1973, Puritan Theatre, Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
A bus-full of screaming passengers went past the abandoned boarded-up theatre. It was to be reopened as a Spanish movie house, but now, instead a smug, doughy, bespectacled man surveyed in self-indulgent satisfaction. He had brought Xar-eel out of Hell. Only a premier witch could conjure a ninth-ring fiend and live to tell the tale. Their screams alone were a shower of pleasure and worth the effort it had taken.
Guy Benoit had achieved this pinnacle of learning independently. He was never part of the Luciferians, Satanists, or any other group. The very idea of sharing anything with anyone repulsed him. He was a twin and had had enough of that growing up with his brother Daniel. They were forced to share everything. Sharing was the first thing he put a stop to when he ran away at fifteen years old. He hated sharing and charity. His fellow man, women, and children were constant irritants.
Stupid people.
He hated them.
He hated people.
He hated everybody.
Listening to the news on his transistor radio, he tried to find a tally of the litany of destruction.
“The death toll rises to well over 1500 people. Authorities are pooling resources to get to the bottom of the ritualistic murders.”
As he listened to others contributions to the tribute for The Redeemer, he reviled everyone he had ever known and anyone he was yet to meet. He walked past pentagrams scrawled on the floor; runes painted in blood on the walls complemented those that covered him from head to toe.
He continued past corpses hanging upside down with their throats cut, the blood drained into buckets beneath them. His loathing thoughts came into mumbles bubbling out of his mouth and rose in volume until he was almost shouting them in a mantra.
“They will suffer, oh yes they will! The Redeemer will crush them all under His heel and they will be pieces of blood, pulp and
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